These thoughts raced through my poor father’s brain as he slowly perused the paper handed to him by the Professors. To give himself time he feigned to be a poor scholar, but when he had delayed as long as he dared, he returned it to the one who had given it him. Without changing a muscle he said—
“Your permit, sir, is quite regular. You can either stay here the night or go on to Sunchildston as you think fit. May I ask which of you two gentlemen is Professor Hanky, and which Professor Panky?”
“My name is Panky,” said the one who had the watch, who wore his clothes reversed, and who had thought my father might be a poacher.
“And mine Hanky,” said the other.
“What do you think, Panky,” he added, turning to his brother Professor, “had we not better stay here till sunrise? We are both of us tired, and this fellow can make us a good fire. It is very dark, and there will be no moon this two hours. We are hungry, but we can hold out till we get to Sunchildston; it cannot be more than eight or nine miles further down.”
Panky assented, but then, turning sharply to my father, he said, “My man, what are you doing in the forbidden dress? Why are you not in ranger’s uniform, and what is the meaning of all those quails?” For his seedling idea that my father was in reality a poacher was doing its best to grow.
Quick as thought my father answered, “The Head Ranger sent me a message this morning to deliver him three dozen quails at Sunchildston by to-morrow afternoon. As for the dress, we can run the quails down quicker in it, and he says nothing to us so long as we only wear out old clothes and put on our uniforms before we near the town. My uniform is in the ranger’s shelter an hour and a half higher up the valley.”
“See what comes,” said Panky, “of having a whippersnapper not yet twenty years old in the responsible post of Head Ranger. As for this fellow, he may be speaking the truth, but I distrust him.”
“The man is all right, Panky,” said Hanky, “and seems to be a decent fellow enough.” Then to my father, “How many brace have you got?” And he looked at them a little wistfully.
“I have been at it all day, sir, and I have only got eight brace. I must run down ten more brace to-morrow.”
“I see, I see.” Then, turning to Panky, he said, “Of course, they are wanted for the Mayor’s banquet on Sunday. By the way, we have not yet received our invitation; I suppose we shall find it when we get back to Sunchildston.”
“Sunday, Sunday, Sunday!” groaned my father inwardly; but he changed not a muscle of his face, and said stolidly to Professor Hanky, “I think you must be right, sir; but there was nothing said about it to me, I was only told to bring the birds.”
Thus tenderly did he water the Professor’s second seedling. But Panky had his seedling too, and, Cain-like, was jealous that Hanky’s should flourish while his own was withering.
“And what, pray, my man,” he said somewhat peremptorily to my father, “are those two plucked quails doing? Were you to deliver them plucked? And what bird did those bones belong to which I see lying by the fire with the flesh all eaten off them? Are the under-rangers allowed not only to wear the forbidden dress but to eat the King’s quails as well?”
The form in which the question was asked gave my father his cue. He laughed heartily, and said, “Why, sir, those plucked birds are landrails, not quails, and those bones are landrail bones. Look at this thigh-bone; was there ever a quail with such a bone as that?”
I cannot say whether or no Professor Panky was really deceived by the sweet effrontery with which my father proffered him the bone. If he was taken in, his answer was dictated simply by a donnish unwillingness to allow any one to be better informed on any subject than he was himself.
My father, when I suggested this to him, would not hear of it. “Oh no,” he said; “the man knew well enough that I was lying.” However this may be, the Professor’s manner changed.
“You are right,” he said, “I thought they were landrail bones, but was not sure till I had one in my hand. I see, too, that the plucked birds are landrails, but there is little light, and I have not often seen them without their feathers.”
“I think,” said my father to me, “that Hanky knew what his friend meant, for he said, ‘Panky, I am very hungry.’ ”
“Oh, Hanky, Hanky,” said the other, modulating his harsh voice till it was quite pleasant. “Don’t corrupt the poor man.”
“Panky, drop that; we are not at Bridgeford now; I am very hungry, and I believe half those birds are not quails but landrails.”
My father saw he was safe. He said, “Perhaps some of them might prove to be so, sir, under certain circumstances. I am a poor man, sir.”
“Come, come,” said Hanky; and he slipped a sum equal to about half-a-crown into my father’s hand.
“I do not know what you mean, sir,” said my father, “and if I did, half-a-crown would not be nearly enough.”
“Hanky,” said Panky, “you must get this fellow to give you lessons.”
CHAPTER IV: MY FATHER OVERHEARS MORE OF HANKY AND PANKY’S CONVERSATION
My father, schooled under adversity, knew that it was never well to press advantage too far. He took the equivalent of five shillings for three brace, which was somewhat less than the birds would have been worth when things were as he had known them. Moreover, he consented to take a shilling’s worth of Musical Bank money, which (as he has explained in his book) has no appreciable value outside these banks. He did this because he knew that it would be respectable to be seen carrying a little Musical Bank money, and also because he wished to give some of it to the British Museum, where he knew that this curious coinage was unrepresented. But the coins struck him as being much thinner and smaller than he had remembered them.
It was Panky, not Hanky, who had given him the Musical Bank money. Panky was the greater humbug of the two, for he would humbug even himself—a thing, by the way, not very hard to do; and yet he was the less successful humbug, for he could humbug no one who was worth humbugging—not for long. Hanky’s occasional frankness put people off their guard. He was the mere common, superficial, perfunctory Professor, who, being a Professor, would of course profess, but would not lie more than was in the bond; he was log-rolled and log-rolling, but still, in a robust wolfish fashion, human.
Panky, on the other hand, was hardly human; he had thrown himself so earnestly into his work, that he had become a living lie. If he had had to play the part of Othello he would have blacked himself all over, and very likely smothered his Desdemona in good earnest. Hanky would hardly have blacked himself behind the ears, and his Desdemona would have been quite safe.
Philosophers are like quails in the respect that they can take two or three flights of imagination, but rarely more without an interval of repose. The Professors had imagined my father to be a poacher and a ranger; they had imagined the quails to be wanted for Sunday’s banquet; they had imagined that they imagined (at least Panky had) that they were about to eat landrails; they were now exhausted, and cowered down into the grass of their ordinary conversation, paying no more attention to my father than if he had been a log. He, poor man, drank in every word they said, while seemingly intent on nothing but his quails, each one of which he cut up with a knife borrowed from Hanky. Two had been plucked already, so he laid these at once upon the clear embers.
“I